The Syntax of Things
by labyrinths
Summary: Leoben's evolution and his pondering on prophecy, empathy, death and more. Kara/Leoben.


**The Syntax of Things**

**by Labyrinths**

"since feeling is first

who pays any attention

to the syntax of things

will never wholly kiss you;"

e.e cummings

_Prophet: One who utters divinely inspired revelations_

His kind were navigators and prophets. Finding patterns, predicting outcomes. He could calculate the odds of an event and balance the possibilities. His model dealt in chances. He built order out of chaos, wove complex dynamical systems in his head.

Nevertheless, he could not fully predict her.

Oh, there were glimpses. Words gleamed from the hybrid and joined with his own calculations. He understood humans; their responses and defects.

Listening to a composition he could detect its harmonious notes, observing a leaf he would find identical geometric shapes and analyzing a face he could judge its symmetry. Thus a human, a mere human, should not pose a problem. It could be measured, understood, dissected and manipulated with ease.

He could not find the bottom of her mind. Every time he thought he could understand her a new layer of skin would be peeled off, surprising him, taking him aback.

He might be able to trace the path of a storm but he was not sure if he could guide hers.

This unsettled the others. His constant visits with the hybrid and his increasingly erratic musings made them stare.

They did not realize he was trying hard to understand. Hard to isolate the very atom, the very essence that made her, well, her.

#

_Empathy: the capacity to recognize another's state of mind or emotion._

He knew she liked him. From the first time they met when she was the cruel interrogator and he was the prisoner and yet she liked him.

In the perfect prison he had fashioned for her she still liked him. Latent attraction. No other one might have known it but he could smell her; almost taste her pent up desire.

He could feel her drifting towards him.

He encouraged her. Little gestures of sympathy, little things which did not earn him a smile. She was close.

A problem: producing empathy is not enough.

Introduce a new element: child.

Compassion.

Awaken feelings of tenderness. Motherhood. Barriers lowered.

No matter.

He shuffles the cards but the deck is not in his favor. He can not understand why.

Later he thinks it is because he also likes her.

He discovers, startled, that this may be an issue.

**#**

_Beauty: an aesthetically pleasing object._

Numbers are beautiful. A stream of mathematical loveliness. He finds constellations appealing. He enjoys the smile of the cat and the snake. He's never thought much of humans since they lack the grace of his own kind.

She is lovely in her own flawed way.

He has measured the curve of her neck and memorized the imperfections of her skin, studied the half-lidded mischief in her eyes, and when she doesn't think he is looking, he's stared at the blue emptiness that fills her.

#

_Death: the permanent cessation of vital functions._

Aboard the Demetrius, as they paint together, he wants to tell her about a story he once read of a man who was swallowed by a mountain and who worshiped a goddess in a darkened lair beneath the earth.

He wants to tell her that his bronze skin is spilling away and for the very first time he is afraid because beneath he is nothing but white bones.

There are no other bodies.

There are no other chances.

He wants to tell her everything he has even seen, or heard, or thought because it might be lost in the abyss that is death.

#

_Dreams: a series of thoughts, images, or emotions occurring during sleep._

The syntax of simple sentences has become problematic and his predictions, which allowed him to lead ships and construct navigational patterns, have diminished in their accuracy. Mistakes creep into the data and the others give him startled looks.

Aboard the Galactica - they are all attempting to show gracious goodwill; to show them this is a real alliance – he sits alone at meal times.

He does not dream. Dreams are unusual for his kind. Instead, they project. D'Anna dreamed but she is a flawed model. But he dreams often now and it is mostly nightmares. Memories of death.

Or premonitions.

#

_Kiss: to touch with the lips as a mark of affection or greeting._

"I can fly," he says and when they turn to look at him he speaks very calmly. "I've flown raiders and my aim is more accurate than any of you."

If they had time to consider it they would probably protest. Kara is already giving him an angry look but he doesn't care what she thinks. War is raging out there and it will not wait.They'll need everyone, even his kind.

They disband and he rushes to his ship.

"My aim is better than any of you?" she asks with a sneer.

"Physiology. I can predict trajectories more efficiently and my reflexes are faster."

"Well, I guess it's that simple."

"It's that simple," he explains matter of factly.

"You can't predict squat."

He's about to correct this statement. Despite recent flaws his efficiency levels are higher than those of a common human, much higher than any of the rookies she would have had to pull over to fill his spot.

But he's not able to reply because she's kissing him. Insistent and fierce. When he tries to hold his hand behind her head she does not allow him but draws her own hands upon his shoulders, pulling him down.

"Stay alive," she mutters and withdraws.

He catches her and kisses her again, crushes her against his chest.

She doesn't say she loves him.

In the end, it matters very little.

THE END


End file.
